


When Broken Joy Took Flight

by poppetawoppet



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Consent Issues Everywhere, Crossover, Dubious Consent, Foster Care, M/M, Minor Character Death, Statutory Rape, highly intense situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a requested fic for  who PM'd me the longest prompt ever, which I'll summarize as <i>White Oleander</i> inspired Kris and Adam in foster care fic. </p>
<p>I'm terrible about trigger warnings, but this is very intense, dark and has a lot of consent issues throughout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Broken Joy Took Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a song of Bernard da Ventadour. 
> 
> Art by chosenfire28 who is amazing
> 
> Beta by ashe_frost thank you so much
> 
> disclaimer: Everything I know about foster care is limited, and although it isn't portrayed in the best light in this story I understand there are both good and bad foster care situations. This story is not meant to be a moral upon that. It is merely an approximation of one possibility

 

_What can we take on trust in this uncertain life? Happiness, greatness,  
pride - nothing is secure, nothing keeps. ~Euripides, Hecuba_

~

The book was well-worn, pages discolored and bent from rereading, the cover wrinkled and stained. Kris held it close to him. He worried that Tati might make him sell it, just as he had had to sell the guitar. He could still feel the strings under his fingers; sometimes he woke with his hands shaped in familiar chords.

So the book stayed hidden or in his possession, a short message scrawled just on the inside of the cover:

"Just in case." ~A. L.

It was the only thing Kris had besides the chipping paint on his thumb that the last six months had even been real, the only evidence that _Adam_ had been real. Kris wasn't letting either the book or idea of Adam go any time soon.

The book was a special shield whenever Alex looked at him, his blue eyes boring into Kris's brown ones, and Kris would feel his palms go clammy, so he would picture the book and remember Adam telling him that if he didn't want to be taken advantage of, he had to pretend like he didn't care if he was taken advantage of. If he had no interest, neither did the predator.

So Kris would look at Alex, and hope he pulled off the combination of indifference and hint of disgust that Adam had perfected so well. It seemed to work.

*

Tuesday was the day before trash day in most of the neighborhood, so that was when Tati went scavenging for her things to sell. All the kids were supposed to go, too, but Kris hated it, not just because it was smelly, but the scavenging reminded him of losing the two things that had kept him sane: his guitar and Adam.

Kris thought about pretending to be sick, but Alex was lying on the couch and watching him. He was always watching.

"You do not look so good," he said.

Kris shook his head. "I'm fine. See you around."

Alex said nothing as Kris left, but Kris could feel Alex's eyes even as he left the house and turned the first corner in the road. Kris had never been watched so much in his life. Alex was Tati's boyfriend, and well, an adult. Kris panicked even thinking about it, but Adam came to mind—as he always did—and Kris calmed. After all, Adam had said Alex was the type who liked it any way he could get it. He was creepy and beautiful. Kris admitted there was a certain attraction to him, and if the situation were different, he might have considered it. Possibly.

While the others ate lunch, Kris sat in the truck and held the book Adam had given him. He wanted to throw it away so many times, but Adam had sworn by it, and Adam had been the only tolerable thing about the whole of his time in Tati's home.

So Kris began to flip through the pages, wondering what was so good about the book anyway.

When he saw pages of loopy handwriting, glued ever so carefully into the spine of the original book, he realized what Adam had really left. Kris looked up, to make sure no one else could see. He didn't think anyone would care about Adam's personal thoughts, but he'd never thought he would willingly let go of his guitar either.

He began to read.

*

 

So I guess you figured it out. I had you pegged at about a week or so in. Maybe someday you'll tell me whether or not I was right.

See, you always wanted to know everything. I told you the past wasn't significant.

I lied.

Everything I am is because of what happened to me, and there are so many lessons I learned that you shouldn't have to. So I began to write it down.

Unlike me, there is a distinct possibility you may walk away relatively normal. Fit for society. Please.

Take care of yourself.

For me.

I suppose I should begin with my mother. She is, after all, why I ended up here, digging through garbage for the crazy Russian and reselling it for cash. And meeting you.

My first memory of my mother is riding the train from London to Cambridge. She was reading one of her slim novels with a foreign name. She never read mass-produced novels, and often told me if she caught me reading any of that trash, she would disown me on the spot.

Leila Lambert was if nothing else, blunt.

My mother wrote novels, the same slim kind she read, the kind that were critically acclaimed and made no money. I read one once. I didn't understand it.

Then again, I've always liked trash. (Perhaps that’s why I never ran from Tati. Then again, by the time I arrived there, what I liked never really mattered anyway.)

One of my teachers in those early years called me precocious because of my large vocabulary. I could have told her that I didn't know any other way to speak. It was either speak my mother's language or not be heard at all.

(I often think this is the reason I make sure to be noticed, because frequently in those early years I was left to my own devices, and the only way to get attention was by being different, whether it was speaking her language or wearing glitter.)

So we moved to California right when I turned seven, a magical year, in some places. In order to make money to support us, my mother had to go into editing the very trash she mocked. Sometimes I would go with her, quietly observing the people in the office, trying to absorb how everyone acted around each other. America was unfamiliar, and even though I wanted to stand out, I learned a lot of social cues from that office.

Which is probably why I tend to be so forward and unfiltered.

The problem with having a mother who treated me as an adult never really surfaced until I figured out I was gay.

I was about ten, and one of my mother’s 'friends' was visiting. He was from Louisiana, and I loved listening to him talk. When all my classmates were talking about girls and cooties, I was thinking of him.

I didn't even know what gay was, until I told my mom.

"Excuse me?" She asked.

"I said, I think I like boys better than girls. Is that bizarre?"

Her face was blank, and then turned thoughtful. "Tchaikovsky was gay."

"Is that what that is? Liking boys?"

She nodded and held me close. "Listen to me, dear Adam, you must know this: there are many people who would hurt you because of what you are. So don't blurt it out, okay?"

I nodded. I told no one else. It was like a secret that bound my mother and I close, even though she never mentioned it again, and never asked me if I was sure. She had taught me never to say anything if I wasn't sure.

The next day, she sat me down with some books, a condom, a banana and some lube, and explained more than I had ever wanted to hear from my mother about sex. She never blinked, never blushed. Simply showed me, and made me repeat her words so she knew I understood. In her mind, there was never any doubt that I could handle it.

My mother always had 'friends' over. I knew what they were, but for some reason she always called them friends. It was the only instance in my life where she treated me like a child; where I felt like one. Obviously she wasn't going to let me share time with them, but I wondered why she didn't call them her lovers, even before I came out. I wanted to learn all her secrets, and she would not tell me one.

So I watched, and gleaned what I could from what little I saw. I discovered that looks meant a lot, that a certain amount of charm overcame some looks, and that there were certain men never to be touched, only to be disdained. I learned the many differences in a touch of the hand on an arm. I learned thirty kinds of laughter. I found out that everyone had a weakness.

My mother's was Gregory. (I'll return to him later.)

My mother always wanted me to be a musician, like Tchaikovsky, I deduced. She tried to give me piano lessons. I discovered I was not really that good. Then we moved to violin. Finally, she caught James and me singing in his apartment.

James was our next door neighbor. I highly suspected he was gay, but I never found out for sure. He liked my company because I would help him read lines for his next project. James was an actor, a word my mother always pronounced with a sniff. But she let me hang out with him because he was smart, and because it gave her free time to write, or do what she liked. When she was around James and I discussed Ibsen and Chekov. When she wasn't, it was Sondheim and Gershwin.

She came home early one day as we were singing, and looked at me imperceptibly. When she took me home, she said, "I don't have money for lessons. Things are too tight. But the radio is free. You listen to the good ones and you learn. You sing."

That is when I began to study music. My teachers were Puccini and Poison and so many others. I would flip the channel randomly each morning, listening carefully and learning the same way I had learned all my social cues.

By the time I turned twelve, even James said I sang better than a lot of his friends. Sometimes he would take me to meet them, under the guise of going for a walk in the park, and there, there I learned everything. They were open and loving, and didn't give a shit about who you were, just who you could be. For the first time in my life I fit in, I could be anyone or anything, as long as I was somebody. I didn't get to go often, but those moments were the ones I held dear in my heart.

My mother never noticed the change. She was delighted in the new Adam I presented her, the one who could speak of words in the same way she could. She didn't know it was me pretending, that I was just trying to reach the enigma of her heart. For those precious last months, it felt like I knew her.

Then there was Gregory.

My mother always had some sort of attachment: she always told me that no one looked good without a little bit of pretty on their side. That was one of her requirements in everything. She liked things to be cleanly. Beautiful. Streamlined.

Guess that was one of the reasons she always sighed at me when I started to gain weight, when I deliberately picked at early pimples just to get her to look at me. We first met Gregory at the office. He was middling in looks, and didn't speak well. So when he first paid my mother any attention, she dismissed him out of hand.

Instead of backing off, like any other man would have done, he simply nodded once and said. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

My mother was incensed about that, so mad she wasn't able to write a thing that night, so mad she despaired over eight little words, crossing them out and rewriting them. In a way, he had succeeded in getting her attention, because he hadn't followed the routine. I could see it, but she could not.

It escalated to the point where he simply handed her tickets to the philharmonic. They were performing Schoenberg and she said yes. I couldn't believe my ears when she said yes, but later she told me it was the Schoenberg that sold her, not the man.

We met him outside of the hall, her in an ethereal white dress, me in slacks and a button down, him in a worn suit that didn't quite match. She sniffed quite loudly when she saw his appearance, but didn't say anything. He winked at me, and I grinned. I immediately liked him.

I remember that night so clearly.

At first the music hurt my ears. But the more I listened, the more I began to put the pieces together, it all fit, like a strange rainbow of sounds, purples and oranges and greens, alien and beautiful. I remember the way my mother's face looked: rapt, peaceful, even happy, and Gregory on my other side, watching her and me and the orchestra, as if we all belonged to him, as if for one moment, we were together. It was as if I had family.

She let him escort us to the car, even let him press a kiss to her forehead. She said nothing on the way home. Nor did I. I was still hearing the harmonies play out in my head, and hoping that maybe this change in course would change my life.

Oh how prophetic that turned out to be.

The rest of that month was spent in half meetings with him, my mother dancing around the fact that she was interested in someone who was not in her circle of acceptable men. Gregory had neither the looks nor the charm to overcome the lack of them. But he had a certain flair, and he was persistent.

When he quoted Sylvia Plath and gave her a bunch of dandelions, she finally agreed to a real date.

That summer is always so shaded for me. We were happy, the three of us. Sometimes I didn't get to go, but that was all right, because my mother was beaming at me later and writing furiously. She had never written fast, but that summer, she couldn't write fast enough.

I think James saw what was happening, because he always took my excitement in stride, and calmed me down. There was a look in his eyes, and now, when I think on it, that said he knew exactly what Gregory was.

I didn't read him at all. He managed to convince my mother to go see a movie without subtitles. He managed to get her to wear jeans and go to a baseball game. He talked to me about music without condescending my opinion, and asked me if I had any boyfriends. In lots of ways, I fell just as hard and just as fast as my mother.

So when he stopped showing up to our house I was devastated. My mother didn't speak of him, only looked at me with red rimmed eyes and politely asked me to shut up. When we sat outside his house and watched it I realized he had broken up with her. She stared at the window, as if willing him to come out and explain.

When I saw him one day, with another woman, blonder, thinner, younger, I stared at him. He looked at me impassively, so I walked up to him and asked.

"When are you coming home, Daddy?"

I walked away smiling. I had at least scored a small point for my mother. Of course he called her and accused her of playing mind games. She said she hadn't said a word to me and hung up. She looked at me a long time, and laughed.

"That was a lovely idea."

What I didn't realize then was that I set her on the path that came next. I encouraged her behavior for the next week, culminating in what was then the worst night of my life...

At first it was phone calls, made from a pre-paid cell phone, her breathing and him angrily hanging up. Then she arranged to be wherever he was, always with a reason for her to be there, never speaking to him, ignoring his increasing frustration with an inhuman calm that I recognized. It was my mother in her element, in control of everything.

But it escalated, until the point we were in his apartment, trashing his things, burning the pages she had written that summer on his bed. I thought it was over then, because she seemed relaxed. But the next day, after the cops had left, me being her alibi, she was even worse. The anger had turned cold, and calculating.

For the first time in my life, I was scared of my mother. I wanted it to stop, but I didn't know how. I thought of calling him a thousand times, trying to warn him that something inn my mother had snapped, that he had finally broken what little bit of sanity she had left.

But then I remembered he had hurt me as well and hung up the phone halfway through dialing, and ignored everything by going to James's apartment and delving into Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Not a week after the incident at his apartment, she broke in again, stealing files from his personal office, burning some, defiling others. It made no sense to me. I could understand everything that had happened up to this point. But what did his work have to do with my mother's ego?

He came to our apartment then, raging, knocking on our door. He kept yelling for my mother, begging for me to let him in. I sat in a corner of my room and covered my head. I didn't even move when my mother came in and said he was gone, a faint splatter of blood of her jeans and a kitchen knife in her hands.

She wrote for the next two days, her eyes ablaze and her face pale and determined. I knew better than to bother her, and James was at a job, so I simply laid in my room and hummed to myself, wondering when my mother would return to herself, when everything could keep playing out as it had, imperfect, but normal.

I peeked at her journal, something I would have never dared. It was a piece of paper, all medical jargon, with the warnings carefully blackened out. I didn't know what the drugs were, but I didn't have to. She knew I knew too, a gleam in her eyes when I begged her to take me on a trip, for us to go driving. I hated aimless travel and she was aware of it.

"Don't worry, Adam," she said, "I have it perfectly covered."

I almost picked up the phone again, but what could I say? How could I tell him that I thought my mother was planning something, but I didn't know what? I had already partaken in the vandalism, so I was already complicit in her crimes. Plus he had broken her. Had taken what little mother I had and broken her. So maybe an upset stomach was a small price to pay.

Two days after I read her journal the police came again. They said words I had heard a million times in James’s apartment, scripts about being arrested. Gregory was dead. It was then I knew that she had gone further than I could have ever imagined. My mother smiled and told me not to worry.

"They have nothing. Soon enough, we will have everything. I'll be back baby."

I shuffled over to James's apartment, and waited. A week passed, and nothing. Finally, a woman with a clipboard and a name tag that said Emma came by. She said she was from Social Services. James shrugged at me.

"I'm sorry kid. I wish I could keep you. But I can't. I'm so sorry."

I had little time to gather anything, so I took my mother's three novels and a picture of us from London, smiling together on the beach. She had her arm around me and looked calm.

The next few months… I only remember bits and pieces. The doctors said I was in shock, because I had been removed from my home. I think it was that my mother had actually gone through with it. I believed her capable of many things, but murder? That was not one of them. Yet she had surely killed Gregory.

I remember seeing her once, drugged up and zoned out in jail. I remember the trial was short, and that she didn't even look my way. I remember being asked a million questions by several policemen and women, and answering none of them. I remember biting someone who tried to steal one of my mother's books, and hiding in the corner, my skin flushed with color for once, instead of the sickly white it had been since I arrived at the home.

There were noises here, characters, and I absorbed them all in the way I always did, still trying to work out how my mother could have _killed_ someone, how I had ended up in a room with fifty-eight brown ceiling tiles and plastic bed sheets. Strangely enough, my skin cleared up for awhile, and girls started looking at me. I did not encourage or discourage them, merely watched them in detachment, moving through the days like a machine. Get up. Eat. Shit. Shuffle.

I finally received a placement eight months to the day my mother was sentenced to life in prison without parole, and I walked away from my bed without any look backwards. The social worker was a woman. I think her name was Lizzie. I don't know. She talked too much.

It took an hour and half to get there, so there was a lot of talking. I had told her that I was gay, and I didn't want anyone who would try to convince me otherwise. So she had found me an open household she said. Rosie had religion, but not in a way that would affect me. Rosie liked it both ways, Lizzie told me under her breath, and lived with a young man named Ryan. Lizzie said Ryan was her boyfriend, but she wasn't sure exactly.

The drive was uneventful, except the house became more rundown, the shrubbery more dried out, and the children wilder. We pulled up to a trailer, where a man sat outside, fiddling with a radio. He looked up at me and smiled, his teeth bright.

I had met Ryan. And so my life changed course again.

*

 

Kris shut the book. He didn't want to read it, he knew who Ryan was. Adam would sometimes mumble his name at night, his voice conflicted. Ryan was…

Complicated.

Kris frowned. He missed Adam, and reading his words made it worse, not better. Adam had been his guide for the last six months and now everything was empty without him. Kris felt like he was stumbling along okay, but he hurt.

Adam had left him a journal and a broken heart, no expectation that he had any intention of waiting for Kris to age out, no word of where he had gone, just a look and a few whispered words in the night.

"It's better this way."

How was it better? Better for Adam maybe, because he could go anywhere now, could be the person he wanted to be without someone constantly monitoring him. Adam had the luxury of freedom, and Kris was stuck in this home with Tati. And Alex.

Alex: blond, beautiful, dangerous; what he wanted, he took. He was careful around Kris though, because if Kris said a word to a social worker, Alex would be arrested faster than he could say stop.

But it never got that far. Alex's hand would linger, but never long enough for anyone else to notice. Except Adam, but he wasn't there anymore, and it wasn't his business was it? Adam had left, and what he had to say didn't matter any more.

Kris lay in bed, pretending to be sick while the others went hunting for treasures. He wasn't, but he had no energy to go anywhere. He had picked up Adam's journal a thousand times and put it back down. Maybe he wanted to learn the lessons in real life. Maybe then he could turn away from his best friend and leave him in a hell hole forever.

"You aren't sick."

Alex.

"No."

"You are lonely, instead, no?"

"Yes."

It was obvious Kris was lonely. Adam had filled enough space for three people, so of course his leaving left Kris empty. Not to mention the way he left, with few words and not even the hint of a hug.

"I could make you less lonely."

Kris said nothing, so Alex sat on the bed and ran his finger down Kris's cheek, rubbing his arm lightly.

Kris swallowed, but his eyes never left Alex's.

"You know what I want," Alex said, his voice low.

Kris still said nothing, a voice in the back of his head screaming for him to do something, and it sounded suspiciously like Adam's, so he didn't listen. After all, Adam had left, so his voice didn't matter anymore.

So when Alex's hand wandered to the zipper of his jeans, and laid flat against his underwear, Kris closed his eyes.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered.

Alex sighed. "Just let me."

Kris opened his eyes and nodded as Alex stripped off his pants, fingers caressing the goose bumps that arose. Kris watched as Alex took off his own pants, his cock straining against his underwear.

"You'll need to get up."

Kris moved, slowly, as if in a dream sequence, so Alex pulled him up and turned him around, his body pressing against Kris's, hard and hot.

"I tell you to do something, you do it quick, understand? We do not want anyone to know do we?"

Kris nodded and then said, "No. This is between us."

"Good boy. I always knew I liked you."

Kris breathed as Alex took off his underwear, and bent him over the bed, hands spreading his butt cheeks.

"Let's see how much he spread you."

Kris knew who Alex was talking about. Still said nothing. He was scared and excited, and slightly disgusted, but for the first time since Adam left he was feeling, so he didn't even care anymore. He let out a breath when Alex stuck a two fingers in, swallowing as three followed, stretching and burning so fast.

"So fucking tight. Jesus," Alex muttered, and Kris heard crinkling and muttering. "Wanted you so long."

The last whisper was breathless, and then Alex was in him, hard and fast and and Kris grunted as Alex drove him into the bed, pounded into him, moaning, his hands on Kris's hips, driving over and over again. Kris breathed, because it hurt, yes, but not nearly as much as he expected. Soon enough there was just friction, enough for him to begin to feel something, and then it was over before Kris could even count to twenty, Alex shivering and screaming, collapsing with a sigh.

"You better clean up any mess before Tati comes home. We can do this again. Soon. I don't know if I can wait again."

Kris nodded, and waited until Alex left before curling into a ball on the floor. He didn't even know if he could move. He slowly gathered his clothes and crawled to the bathroom. It hurt.

But at least he felt something.

 

_It doesn’t matter how you feel, Kris. You have to show them that you don’t feel anything. That way they can’t hurt you. That way, they don’t win._

Kris walked into the kitchen the next morning and poured himself some cereal. He admitted he had made a mistake. He probably shouldn't have let Alex fuck him. It had certainly distracted him, but it hadn't done any good, though.

“Good morning. Are you feeling better today?”

Kris picked up his bowl and turned around. Alex. He shrugged.

“I’m okay.”

Then he walked—not without some effort, but damn if he was going to let it show—into the living room, and cheered himself with the confused look on Alex’s face. Perhaps Alex had wanted to hurt him, to try and dominate him. Alex seemed the type. What he didn’t understand was that Kris hadn’t slept with him because he had felt intimidated; he had slept with Alex because he hadn’t felt anything at all.

Kris realized now the next move was his. But he didn't know what it was; for the first time he was on his own, and he had to make decisions for himself.

Kris ignored all the noise in the room as he put his bowl away and went to his bedroom. He picked up the book, weighing it in his hands. He had to admit, Adam had guided him through a lot, even before he left. Maybe that was why he wrote it all down. Kris sighed, and opened the journal.

*

I had been around James’s friends enough to know when I was being looked at, and since Lizzie was at the door talking with a woman I presumed to be Rosie, I knew his eyes were on me. At first I didn’t know why, but then I remembered my hair had grown out a little, and turned more of a sandy blond than its usual orange. My face was clear, and a growth spurt had left me lean and lanky. So, for the first time in my life, I was looked at and admired. It was but a flash of a moment, but I saw it.

I was fourteen years old.

I felt myself flush, and toyed with my hands. I didn’t know who this man was, but he obviously belonged to my new home. There was no way I was ruining that.

“Adam, come here,” Lizzie said.

At the door stood a walking cliche: Rosie (“Ms. Patterson,” Lizzie had warned, knowing I often called my mom by her first name) had just enough make-up on to show that she was a woman, but her clothing did its best to hide it.

“Hello, Ms. Patterson,” I said, looking her in the eye, but not holding out my hand.

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman? Everyone ‘round here calls me Rosie. Except Ryan over there, but don’t you mind him, he’s just quiet. Why doncha come in and you can get settled?”

I followed her inside.

“You’ll be sharing a room with Michael, he’s at school right now. We also have two girls, Carly and Allison. They’re also in school. Now I have to know, are you a friend of God?”

I looked at Lizzie, who winked at me, and nodded for me to answer truthfully.

“Actually, um, Rosie, I’m Jewish. Lapsed, but Jewish nonetheless.”

“Oh. Well then. Do you have any clothes other than that?”

I looked at my jeans and t-shirt, gleaned from the donation pile at the home. “No.”

“We’ll take you shopping then. Get ya something nice to wear.”

“Okay.”

Lizzie pulled me aside then and gave me a number I knew I wouldn’t call unless I was bleeding to death, because even though it was in the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t a sparse bed covered in plastic just in case I decided to wet the bed. At least there wouldn’t be (I hoped) crying in the night, or people trying to steal the shoes off your feet.

*

Shopping with Rosie was an adventure. Her tastes ran very pedestrian, and I found myself in corduroy pants and a button down shirt. My mother would hate it. I embraced it, choosing to play grateful son for awhile, because Rosie seemed to like it.

(You’ll notice a pattern soon, Kris, that I tended always to play a part, probably from the moment I realized that it made life just a little more stable. Guess that makes you wonder who I was playing with you then? I’d like to say it was Adam, but I don’t know. I do it without thinking any more. But more of that later.)

She even asked me if I wanted to see my mom. At first I almost said no, just to spite her for leaving me to fend for myself in the worst possible places imaginable, but she was my _mother_ , so eventually I said yes.

Rosie talked most of the way there, asking me questions about my childhood, about what holidays we celebrated, or how big my birthday parties were. I didn't tell her that my mother didn't believe in holidays sponsored by Hallmark and that birthdays were only a reminder that she was another year older.

The prison itself was fairly nondescript from far away. It didn't look like anything except for the fence, and then as we got closer, the bars.

My mother wasn't allowed to hug me, but she gave my hand a brief squeeze when the guard wasn't looking. I felt guilty for almost saying no to seeing her.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

I shrugged. "I don't have plastic on my bed anymore, so I guess I'm doing better."

She smiled. "Well, that's good."

"It would be better if you were home and everything would go back to the way it was."

"Now Adam," she sighed, and I knew I was going to get one of her tidbits of advice. "Life is about change. And sometimes it isn't good. Sometimes our little joys get broken."

I nodded, swallowing any form of retort. After all, she had never been nurturing to begin with, so why expect a change from her? Next thing I knew she would say "Changes happen to people, not within them."

"Look at it as a way to gain strength. You must be strong to stand against the wind that is society."

(She said that. I'm not kidding)

"Okay, Mom."

I didn't tell her that I hadn't cried, because then she would think something of it, or make some other sort of statement.

"I want you to write me."

"I can do that?"

"Of course. I don't know if they'll read it, but I want at least one or two letters from you, to know how you are doing."

I smiled then. She wanted to hear from me. Maybe, just maybe, she was changing.

I waved goodbye, feeling warm for the first time since I had walked into her room and discovered her crying over Gregory. Maybe things would be okay.

For those first few months, it was almost normal. I discovered that Michael was a trouble maker who snuck out at every opportunity, that Carly was mostly quiet, but when she wanted to be heard… And Allison.

I never wanted a little sister. Ever. But the first time I met Allison, she blinked and gave me a hug, saying it looked like I needed one, then asked me if I wanted to hear about the life cycle of a cricket. She liked bugs. Rosie did not.

We got along just fine, Allison and I. I think—I'd like to think I was Adam with her. She somehow conned me out into the sun despite my skin, and somehow had me holding crickets for her while she drew them. She was extraordinary.

I discovered that Rosie was a recovering alcoholic and recent convert to religion in general. So Wednesdays were combined church meetings and AA. She left us with Ryan, even though he probably wasn’t an appropriate baby sitter. But he was pretty relaxed, and handled whatever came in the same calm way he handled everything. I was the oldest (besides Michael, but he had left), so I got to stay up, and we would play checkers and listen to records.

Ryan liked to sit outside and smoke, so Rosie wouldn't have to smell it in her house. The first time he pulled out the joint I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before. James’s friends smoked pot regularly, and it never bothered me then. If Rosie ever found out, though, I had a feeling that Ryan was in deep trouble.

After all, Rosie had found God and rid herself of the evils of drugs. But Ryan was cool. He and I discussed the music in the records, and I confessed my secret desire to be a singer or an actor or both. He told me I could do anything, and if his hand lingered too long on my back I ignored it, because he paid attention.

My mother's letters only went so far.

He listened to what I wanted, instead of telling me what I should want. I fell and I fell hard. After all, he fit all the things I seemed to like best in a guy. I should have been creeped out, but what you have to remember is that my mother had never taught me boundaries as far as sex was concerned.

Safety, yes. Boundaries? No.

It didn't even occur to me that the flirting was wrong until Rosie pulled me aside after one of her Wednesday meetings and pushed me into a wall, her nose inches from my face.

"Don't think I don't see you."

"I don't—"

"You know perfectly well what," she interrupted. "I see you two, all flirty and close. One: he's my boyfriend. Two: if I even think you've lured him into bed, I will have you flying out of this house so fast you won't know what hit you. Three: don't tell me it's him, because any sane man would know better. After all, fifteen gets you twenty."

She stalked away. I knew what she was talking about. I knew all about pedophilia and statutory rape.

But those weren't me. I wasn't being pressured at all. Anyway, we were just flirting. It meant nothing.

My mother wrote me several letters, full of implied concern and wanting to know details. I sent her back airy replies saying Ryan treated me like a kid brother and that nothing was wrong. After all, what she didn't know… It wouldn't have been the first or last time I kept secrets from her.

But six months after my arrival Rosie started to drink again, just a little bit, and Michael looked at me before disappearing again and said, "Don't worry. In another four months she'll find God again and we'll all be in church singing His praises."

One unspectacular Wednesday she took Carly and Allison shopping, and I was supposed to be at school for some math fair thing. I hadn't done a project so it was pointless. So I came home early and no one was there. I heard noise in the workshop and went there.

Ryan was fixing some shelves, his shirt long gone, sweat tracing the muscles of his torso, just a slight shade lighter than his arms. My mouth went dry and any greeting I had was swallowed up by a rush of blood. Ryan continued to work, until his eyes happened to turn my way.

He looked at me then, eyes darkening as they swept up and down. I blushed because it was probably obvious what I was feeling, my dick straining against my jeans for anyone to see. Ryan put down the hammer and walked over to me.

"I'm thirsty," he said quietly.

"I-I-I-can get you something," I managed to choke, trying to tear my eyes away.

He shook his head and smiled. "Not like that."

Then his hand pushed me, until my back was against the wall, and his face was right in front of mine.

"Tell me no," he whispered.

I blinked, then my hand reached up and pulled him forward, our lips meeting softly at first, then I opened my mouth, inviting him to touch, wanting him to do whatever he wanted. My whole body felt strung out and electric, his body barely brushing against it. Then he stepped into the kiss and I could feel his cock hard against mine, even through our jeans, and I sighed.

Then Ryan stepped away and my face must have fallen because he placed a hand on my cheek and smiled. Then he was on his knees, his hands unbuttoning and pulling, and I watched as he put his mouth around my dick, all the way at first, then his tongue swirling around, and I couldn't look any more because it was too much. I lost control, my hips jerking as I came, and I kept my eyes closed as he buttoned me up and stood.

"You know why that happened?" he whispered, his hands on my hips.

I shook my head.

"So the next part lasts longer."

I opened my eyes then and looked. I had read the books, wanting to know, so I knew that there were many options as far as the next part.

"What's the next part," I breathed, hoping I sounded excited instead of scared.

"The next part," Ryan said, kissing me and nipping my lip, "is where I fuck you. I assume that's what you want."

Oh how I wanted it. I had wanted it since he had first laid eyes on me. That's what I felt in my state of euphoria.

"Yes," I said. "Lead the way."

Ryan led me into my room. "Get undressed while I get something."

I stripped and waited, my cock already hardening again, then Ryan was back, and his hands ran down my chest and lightly stroked under my balls. I arched under his touch.

"Please."

"We'll get there. Don't worry," he said.

He stood and undressed, and I stared at his cock, red and dripping already, and began to breathe a little faster.

"Can I?" I whispered.

He nodded and I reached out, tracing the length with one finger. Ryan's eyes closed and I wrapped my hand around him, pulling gently, then stroking again.

His hand took mine away and he knelt down. He kissed me again, and whispered in my ear.

"Not too loud now."

I held back as his fingers stretched me, just long enough for me to think it was forever, but not so long I completely fell apart.

He had done this before.

Then he pushed inside me, slowly at first, his eyes rolling back as he thrust, it felt weird and at first I thought I was doing something wrong, because I didn't feel anything except his movement inside me, then his hand was on my cock, and the added friction was enough to take me over, Ryan's shudders following mine moments later.

We lay there for a moment.

"Rosie's going to be back soon," I said.

"I know."

We cleaned up and he stole a kiss, whispering in my ear, "You were perfect."

It was everything I wanted to hear; it was everything I was supposed to.

The second time, hard and fast on the floor of the woodshed, I felt everything and I couldn't contain my smile. That whole summer we couldn't keep our hands off each other. We thought we were so careful, the two of us. The one night in July, where I fumblingly fucked him, then again in the morning, with assurance I never knew I had. He whispered his love in those stolen moments and I whispered it back.

You may wonder what in the hell I was thinking. Understand this: I made all my choices consciously. That being said, for the first time in my life, I had someone who was completely focused on me. It was thrilling and intoxicating, and also for the first time in my life, I acted my age. I damned all the consequences and followed my heart. Well, my dick, but at that age whose heart isn't tied there?

But I did love him, and every time we were together I began to believe in a future where there was no one else. Ryan would whisper his worries and I would shake my head and tell him it was okay. I understood better than anyone else.

It was November and it was raining. That was the end of my time with Rosie. Allison was following tracks of some sort, excitedly yelling about migration to Carly. Michael was off again doing whatever.

I was lying in bed and ignoring my mother's last letter, which had been vague and distant and all her usual tricks to try and get me to pay attention to her. But I had Ryan. So what did I care about her?

Ryan and Rosie were arguing again, and I could vaguely hear them through the wall. Then it came.

"I know why you won't fuck me! You're getting it on the side with the little fag! I'm not fucking stupid! Wait till I tell his fucking social worker! Then you'll be the one getting it!"

"You know what Rosie? I'm done!"

Then I heard Ryan storm out. I was already on my feet, my mother's books in my hand and headed to the window. Ryan would wait until I got out. I just knew it.

"Think he's gonna wait for you? He's just after the next piece of tail, you dumb queer."

I didn't even turn, didn't even process the noise as a gunshot. I didn't even feel it at first, the shock propelling me to the floor. It wasn't until Allison's hand was in mine, and her voice was calling out, to the phone I later realized, that I began to feel pain.

*

The next two weeks are pretty lost to drugs. Allison was there. I didn't think of it at first, but then I realized by saving me, she gave up her place in Rosie's home. She had no idea that she would have been taken from there anyway. She didn't even get to keep her crickets. She was shuffled away with a squeeze of my hand and a shy smile and I never saw her again.

A nurse brought in a letter from my mother, three pages long and tear stained. I didn't read it at first.

_When you come back to me, I can breathe again_

So maybe my mother loved me after all. When I look at it again, I realize the phrasing told the real story. As per usual, it was never about me. But I didn't know that then.

I knew Ryan couldn't come. After all, that would be dangerous. But I knew he was waiting. He loved me.

The police kept coming and asking me questions. I answered none of them. After all, if I got Rosie in trouble, she would rat on Ryan (not that she hadn't already, but it was my word against hers, and I had said he hadn't touched me.) But if she was arrested, in my head, Ryan would never come for me. It didn't matter what the truth was, or if the police ended up arresting them both. To me, if I said nothing, then Ryan would be able to take me away from everything.

So I shut up and waited. It took until January for me to achieve something resembling a hobble. My back felt like it was going to tear apart. I looked at it in the hospital mirror, the small puckered scar just shy of my spine.

Not quite as good a story as yours, but my story, nonetheless.

I think reality came in two forms: the hospital switched me from their pain meds to the ones the state would pay for, so gone was the constant high, the state of calm that came with the haze of narcotics. Secondly, as my new social worker led me out of the hospital, there was no tanned face, no sign Ryan was anywhere in sight. A part of me still hoped.

As we drove away from the hospital I began to realize that he wasn't coming, that he wasn't waiting. That maybe he didn't love me after all.

In a month, I would be fifteen.

I had already decided I would never let anyone in like that again.

In a month, I would be fifteen, and I had already learned the great art of lying, even to myself.  


Kris closed his eyes. So that was why Adam whispered Ryan's name sometimes. Why Adam had told him…

Kris began to wonder if Adam really had kept to that promise, if he really hadn't let anyone in and that was why he left without saying goodbye. If so, then Kris was now the one left hanging, his heart in one place, his body another.

It still didn't tell Kris what to do with his time left at Tati's. There was another kid coming tomorrow, and Kris didn't know whether or not he'd get anymore alone time. So he cracked open the book again.

*

The first thing I noticed about my new home was the neighbors. There was a beautiful car parked out front, its garden was immaculate, and all the shades were drawn. It was closed up in a neighborhood full of open homes. I began to think of what it could be and stopped myself.

_Never think of what could be, dear. Think of what is._

My mother. Always there in the back of my mind. I shook my head. Jason, my new social worker, was speaking with a blond woman at the door.

"Hello, Mrs. Whitaker. I'm Adam."

"Hello, Adam. Why don't you go on and settle in the guest bedroom? Robbie isn't home yet, and Katelyn is napping, so we have a little time."

I nodded, and shuffled down the hall. I saw family pictures, just Alaina and some guy with what looked like a bad weave, then; a baby, the spitting image of her mother. I knew I'd never be in the pictures, but I began to realize how I'd ended up here.

There was no danger of me sleeping with Robbie.

I went back to school that week, although it was pretty fuzzy, the drugs covering up most of my memories of anything resembling education. Plus I was still pining for Ryan, hoping he would come and take me away.

See, the Whitakers weren't really looking for another child.

They wanted a free babysitter/housecleaner/general errand runner. And I was it.

I didn't care, because Alaina didn't make me go to school when I didn't want to, which was four days out of five. Instead I would sneak out after my chores were done and smoke pot with the other slackers, glad that there was something to take all my pains away.

Though she did make me do her roots, flippantly telling me it would be a good career field for someone like me.

I began to listen to music again, singing softly when the house was full, up to full volume on my own. It filled the spaces.

I mailed my mother, telling her about my new home, omitting the really bad stuff. I wasn't happy, but it was a roof over my head and no one was getting drunk or sneaking out. She mailed me back and told me to persevere, that some day we would be together again, away from the hum drum, the mainstream, everything I was currently embracing.

She would have shuddered to know my jeans were from Wal-Mart.

In March, I was sitting outside, baby Katelyn napping and Alaina watching her soaps. Then I saw her.

She drove a convertible, black and sleek. Her figure was round, but not like Alaina. It was almost molded, perfectly shaped beneath carefully tailored slacks. My mother had been to enough parties for me to recognize designer clothing. She flashed me a smile and walked inside her door.

I was half in love already.

"Ugh. She's back."

I looked up. "Huh?"

"That, Adam is an example of why neighbors should be screened. She is a whore. High priced, but a whore anyway. And she doesn't care to whom. I even heard—"

Alaina shook her head. "You ever go near her and I will send you back to the home. She is evil."

Alaina hated her. I looked back to the driveway and shuttered windows. It was too late. I had to know.

*

I watched the house whenever I could.

I hadn't told my mother yet of this woman. I didn't even know her name. I knew she often had visitors: men, women, all of them driving cars with foreign names and smiles on their faces as they left. I wondered if she was a businesswoman, or “independently wealthy”. I had read that term before. I began to imagine scenarios in which she and I met.

I had never had much of an imagination; after all I wasn't encouraged to dream. I was encouraged to want something and attain it. (Which is probably why my mother disapproved of the idea of me becoming an actor. Yet she was a writer and that was okay.)

Also, looking back, my days had been filled before. I had had Ryan, thinking of ways to be with Ryan, and finding excuses for my long absences to give to everyone. With school being a complete wash I had to have something to occupy myself.

Then the opportunity came. Alaina had to take Katelyn to the doctor. Robbie was at work. I walked over and knocked.

She was perfect: still dressed well, despite the fact she wasn't going anywhere. She looked at me.

"You belong down the street," she said. "Are you selling something for school?"

Her voice. Her voice was perfect. Rich, with just a hint of a drawl. I shook my head.

"No. But Alaina says you are a high priced whore. I was wondering if that was true."

"Excuse me?"

I blushed. "I mean, um, I just think that it doesn't matter what a person is, it's how they live their life, right? My mom always told me that outside mattered, but she killed a guy. I just, well, I want to know about you. Ma'am."

"Yes. I know. I've seen you watching the house. Come in. Don't call me ma'am, it makes me feel old. Kelly will do just fine."

I followed her into the living room and stared. It was colorful and full, photos everywhere. There was art on the wall, and splashes of color in the rugs. I sat, amazed that something like this was inside of something so plain.

"Your house is amazing," I said.

"Thank you. As for your question, I'm not really sure it's your business young man."

I looked at her. Something about her made me want to lay it out on the table. I had been keeping secrets all my life. It was tiring.

"No offense, but I've had sex. Several times. So if you think I'm squeamish, I'm not."

Kelly blinked. "You've had sex? How old are you?"

"Fifteen. We loved each other, but we can't be together because, well because."

She laughed then. "Oh how little you know. You really are a pretty thing. But you have a lot to learn."

She sat next to me. "What Alaina said? Partially true. I have several lovers, and they like to give me nice things. If that makes me a whore, then so be it."

I stared at her for a long time. She made no excuses.

She reminded me of my mother, except that she seemed to be relatively sane.

"You should get home. But if you feel like dropping by and talking about your girlfriend, you are more than welcome."

"Boyfriend," I corrected automatically.

"Is that so? Such a shame. You would have pretty children. Now go, before Mrs. Whitaker finds you here and lets you get away. There is much I have to teach you, it seems."

I grinned and walked out. This was going to be a good home. I just knew it.

*

I wrote my mother, telling her about Kelly, although I did conveniently leave out the details. The letter I got back said two words. _Be careful_. I know she was referring to Ryan, but this was different.

For the month of March it was like that: brief conversations by her mailbox, a wink in passing. Then one day in early April Alaina was sleeping in front of her soaps, and Katelyn was visiting her grandmother. So I left the house, leaving a note that said I would be back. It wasn't like I didn't disappear most days anyway.

"Well, hello Adam. You caught me just as I was leaving. How do you feel about shopping?"

"It's okay," I said.

Kelly made a tsking sound. "Well, let's teach you the right way and you will understand."

We drove for awhile, Kelly asking me about school, home, any boyfriends I might have made recently.

"Have you seen the kids around here?" I said. "Plus, not exactly a great idea to advertise my sexuality."

"If you can't be who you are amongst your enemies, when can you?"

Her eyes never left the road, but I could feel them on me anyway. I realized that next to me was the most courageous person I knew. If she could be who she was in the face of people like Alaina, then I could handle teenagers. Maybe.

I kept my mouth shut most of the time, listening to her talk about cut, and cloth. Design and color. What I could get away with buying cheap and what had to be bought full price. We talked about developing style, and then moved onto make-up.

I watched as Kelly dove in and pointed out everything good, bad, and useful in emergencies. I filed it all away, wanting to remember this day when I needed it most.

We ate lunch at a nice restaurant, and I pretended for a moment that Kelly was my older and cooler sister. It was good.

Towards the end of lunch she tilted her head. "You shouldn't pick at your face you know. It's too pretty for scars."

I didn't tell her I did it for attention (or lack thereof), so I nodded. I wanted so bad to be like her that I decided then and there I would try to be fabulous and beautiful no matter what anyone else said. I just had to figure out how.

Then she snuck me into a club, laughing as I stood back, and dragging me onto the dance floor.

"You have the hips, now just use them!" She laughed at me, and I closed my eyes, listening as I had before, learning everything I could about the music before responding. Before I knew it I felt myself moving, the music controlling my limbs, the beat driving my heart. Kelly beamed at me and nodded.

She dropped me off two houses down, and I ignored Alaina as she peppered me with questions.

"I was out. Okay? I do that sometimes."

I took extreme satisfaction in slamming my door in her face.

After that I got a small job at the library, enough hours to pay for clothes and beauty supplies, but not so many hours Alaina could complain I wasn't helping at home. I stopped eating everything on my plate, watching my portions of the gobs of grease she insisted on calling food. It sucked, because I was hungry, but my skin cleared up so much faster. Alaina raised her eyebrows when I turned up with dark hair, but said nothing. When I started wearing eyeliner, she frowned, but still stayed quiet.

I won't say it was taken so lightly at school. It was bad enough I was the new kid. Plus I was queer. Then the make-up. Let's just say I learned a lot about running and punching those months, about how many names one can be called and have it still hurt inside. I also discovered the school library at this time, finding a little book called _The Art of Survival_. It had information on how to live through anything. I stole it.

I figured I needed it more than most anyone else.

I was beginning to find myself, and Kelly was delighted. My mother not so much. She said I had been enchanted and ensorcelled, and she wouldn't speak to me until I said I was myself again. I told her I was myself and if she didn't like it then I could stand the silence.

(By now you guess this was when I discovered I could and would talk back and it wouldn't kill me. This discovery above all, was the most important of this time.)

One day, mid April, I asked Kelly if I could make a call from her phone. I had been poring through phone books at the library, and I had a few numbers I suspected were Ryan's. I had to know. She said no at first.

"You are only going to get your heart broken. Again."

"Please. I just need to see for myself. He said he loved me."

Kelly gave me a long look. "Well, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."

"My mom says that."

"Your mom sounds like she knows her stuff."

I shrugged.

"I'll put it on speaker."

The first two numbers were wrong.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Clarkson from the Southern Hospital for Children. I'm looking for Ryan?"

"This is he."

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, Ryan, we here at the Southern Hospital for Children are fundraising for—"

There was a click, then a dial tone.

"Well the good thing is he's only an hour away," Kelly said, looking at the address. "Are you ready to do this?"

I nodded. "I just want things resolved."

"Well, then, let's come up with a plan. Don't want to look silly now, do we?"

I smiled. "Okay."

*  
The plan was that I was with my new foster mother and I was selling magazines. (Kelly had several for me to carry around as examples.) So stumbling upon Ryan was going to be a complete accident. Except I would be fabulous and confident and everything I wasn't feeling at the time.

"Okay, kiddo, go get this done."

I sighed and walked up to the door, rehearsing my lines. I knocked and looked at the magazines.

"Yeah?"

"Hi," I said without looking up, "I'm selling magazine subscriptions to fund raise for my school's Glee Club. Would you like to buy one?"

I looked up and then faked an appropriate gasp.

"Oh my gosh," I said, and looked down again.

"Adam?"

His voce was strained, barely a whisper.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm selling magazine subscriptions for school. That's my new foster mom in the car."

I turned and waved. Kelly waved back. Then I looked Ryan in the eye. Not much had changed, especially the look in his eye.

"I don't want any magazines," he said. "Thank you."

"Thanks for listening. Good to see you."

I began to walk away.

"Wait. Adam."

I suppressed a victorious smile. "Yeah?"

"No hard feelings right? I mean, you knew it wasn't anything that was going to last? Is that why you didn't say anything?"

A flash of lyrics repeated in my brain. _Inside my heart is breaking/My make-up may be flaking/But my smile, still, stays on_

I smiled at him. "Hard feelings? Why would I have hard feelings? Anyway, my new boyfriend showed me some things you wouldn't _believe_. I always was good with my tongue."

I walked away without looking back. He was still standing there when Kelly drove away. She stopped about halfway home.

"All right, let it out," she said.

I stumbled out of the car and puked in the grass.

"He used me."

"All men are users. All people are users. You just have to learn how to use them right back."

I was too tired to argue. I had let myself hope, let the foolish whims of my imagination allow for the possibility that love did exist. I had forgotten the inherent lesson my mother had taught me: love is finite, lovers are not.

So I added to my list of lessons learned: never expect anything, never be disappointed.

*

Kelly left on business just after Easter, which I adamantly refused to celebrate, not just because I wasn't Christian, but because chocolate made me break out. I walked by Kelly's house a thousand times, wondering when she would be back. I spent the rest of April and all of May wondering if she had really cared at all; if there was a postcard she would send.

By June my roots were three inches long, so I shaved my head and began to eat everything in sight, ignoring the curling in my stomach from its objection to the massive amounts of grease and fat it was undertaking. By July I had gained fifteen pounds. I looked terrible.

When Kelly pulled up into her driveway the first week of August, I turned away. I waited a whole week to knock on her door. Her face when she saw me—I won't forget her eyes. She smiled, but her eyes showed the disgust, the revulsion at what I had become.

It was then I realized it was superficial, all of it. She was only interested in the outside.

But then she pulled me close and whispered. "Was it because I left?"

I nodded. In one sentence she had understood my character better than any psychologist I had ever been to.

She frowned. "I can't do this Adam. I'm not your mother. And I don't want to be. I enjoy your company, but I don't want a child. I never have or will."

"I know," I said, but inside, another dream died. I had already forgotten my lesson.

I had hoped she would overcome it, but none of us can overcome our basic natures. That's why you will always be good, no matter what you do Kris. Your basic nature is good. Myself? I'm not so sure. After all, my mother killed someone with no compunction, and I did nothing to stop her. I'm fairly sure that indicates some sort of flaw in my character.

Kelly talked with me the rest of the night, and I fell asleep on her couch, not thinking. Alaina saw me leave the house. It was then I knew my days of balance between complete boredom and sheer bliss were almost over. Alaina wanted any excuse to rid herself of what she considered a neighborhood blemish, and she had just found one.

But I wasn't giving up this time. I hadn't spoken when Rosie had shot me because I wanted Ryan to know I would keep his secret: look where that got me. So when the police asked me about Kelly, I told them that she had been nothing but nice to me, and that I had made friends with her because Alaina and Robbie worked me like a housemaid instead of allowing me to be a child.

I was losing Kelly either way, so it was nothing but a pleasure to see Alaina being questioned, Kelly watching as the social services people lead me and the baby away. I winked at Kelly one last time and she nodded.

Yes, she had only taught me the superficial, but she had also taught me how to use it to my benefit. If only I had known my power before.

Wherever I was going, I had decided two things. First, I was never going to let myself dream again. It only led to pain. Second, if I wanted to achieve a goal, I was going to do it on my own.

 

*

 

Kris breathed carefully.

It was late. Matt snored quietly in the other bed, and Tati and Alex were at it again, giggly and whispering in Russian, a steady thumping against the wall punctuated with words he didn't need to translate. Somewhere in the distance he heard cars on the highway.

He had often dreamed scenarios in which Adam came back, each time taking him away from the sounds and the smells and the loneliness of this house. He dreamed that maybe Adam had a reason for leaving.

Kris began to realize the book was Adam's way of telling him that life sucked, that life was pain. That while what they had had was something it was only a moment in a long empty life. Kris blinked away a tear. But he had loved, and been loved. Kris couldn't dismiss his family, no matter what he was told they had done. But maybe the rest of the world was different. Maybe it was different to Adam.

Kris ignored the sharp pain in his heart and began to tuck it away. He considered it a lesson well learned. Now the issue was what to do next. Alex had been looking again, and Kris hadn't said no yet.

Maybe if Kris took control, he could make it better. If he became the aggressor, he could manipulate Alex into getting what he wanted. Maybe he could even get a guitar. It wouldn't be _his_ guitar, but any one would do. Kris felt weird at the idea of contemplating a relationship like that. It went against his very nature. But maybe he could change just a little, so he could get something he wanted for once.

"Why are you awake still? It's a selling day tomorrow," Matt mumbled.

"I know. Just thinking."

"He left, Kris. I didn't know him, but even I know that."

"I know. I just realized that maybe it all really didn't mean anything. That he thought of me as his friend, and wanted to protect me. So now I get to get over him."

"That's good. Can you do it quietly so I can sleep though?"

"Good night, Matt."

Kris turned over and began to plan. It wasn't what he had ever imagined for his life, but he was tired of just going through each day the same, following what he was told and never doing anything for himself. Alex wasn't exactly his first choice, but he was perhaps the most accessible. Add in that Alex was in a position to give Kris what he wanted, perhaps he could get something out of it.

Kris closed his eyes, but despite his new resolution, there was a turning in his stomach he couldn't quite place.

*

Kris sat tuning the old instruments they had found two days earlier, playing what he could in order to sell them, his commission of ten percent well worth the trouble of learning at least "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" on as many instruments as he could. Tati was everywhere: smiling and wheedling, only staying long enough to bewilder customers, but not so long as to annoy them. It was an art, a dance that fascinated Kris at times, because underneath the flaky annoying exterior laid a shrewd businesswoman, one who knew exactly how to get everything out of a sale.

"You are not selling much."

Kris looked at Alex, who was there for security mostly, though everyone knew better than to try and cross Tati.

"It's a slow day."

"Tomorrow Tati goes to see her mother."

"I know."

"I am not going."

The implication lay there, heavy and waiting.

"I know." Kris looked directly at Alex, then let his gaze trail down and up again. Alex swallowed. "Matt is going to see his family. We have time."

Alex nodded and turned to leave. Kris grabbed his wrist.

"But if you want it, and on a regular basis, we can lay some ground rules."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "If I wanted it that badly I would have taken it by now," he whispered.

"No," Kris said, his heart wild and nervous. "See, you know that I could tell at any time. I'm in control now. I know you want it, and I'm more than willing to give it, but I want something for my silence."

"I can get it elsewhere."

Kris stood then putting Alex's hand on his crotch, one part of him horrified, the other detachedly interested at Alex's eyes, now fully dilated.

"But you want mine. You like it young and tight. I'm not stupid."

Alex let out a breath and pulled Kris's hand away. "There is another boy in the house. I could have him."

Kris almost broke then, a flash of fear silencing him.

"Matt?" He shook his head. "You don't think I haven't tapped that already? I mean, have you seen him following me around? You wouldn't stand a chance with him."

Kris looked Alex in the eye. Kris had never been a good liar, but there must have been enough truth in his statement, because Alex nodded.

"What do you want?"

"A guitar. I don't care how you convince Tati to let me keep one, but I want it. Beyond that? I'll let you know. I'll see you tomorrow."

Kris watched Alex walk away with a certain sense of pride. He had done it. He had gained the power in the situation. Kris smiled to himself, and mentally thanked Adam. There was a twinge in his heart at that, but it was smaller than he had expected. Maybe it would turn out to be okay.

*

"Tati will be back soon," Kris said as Alex's hand roamed down again.

"There is still time."

"Not if you want to have anything left for her."

Kris could feel Alex's frown, his whole body drooping away from Kris's.

"I—"

"Look, it's all good. It's just sex. You sleep with her, I sleep with Matt; we all have a good time. Unless you want me to fuck you?"

Kris barely believed the words had left his mouth, but Alex shivered. Kris turned and looked at him.

"You want me to fuck you?"

Alex's breathing hitched and his eyes were dark. "Yes. But you are right. Later."

Kris idly watched Alex walk out of the room and picked up his guitar. Alex had told Tati that perhaps if they were going to be selling musical instruments now, that having someone who could play one really well would be much better than playing them all somewhat competently. Tati had thought about it, and they had found a guitar a week later, so Kris got what he wanted.

The sex was better. It wasn't like it was with Adam, for many reasons, but it was tolerable. Kris's mouth twitched. Alex was going to be in for a surprise if he thought Kris had no experience.

Kris hit a minor chord and thought. Some part of him was still horrified, but at least his days had something. It wasn't happy, or satisfying, but it was more than spending his days just being. Maybe now he could focus on some sort of goal. Maybe now he could find some purpose. He only had a year now until he aged out himself, so he had to find some way to transfer into the real world.

"Hey, I'm out of things to read. Are you done with this?"

Kris looked up. It was Adam's book.

"No."

Matt's eyes widened at Kris's tone of voice. Kris sighed.

"It's not that good anyway."

"You were poring over it for weeks."

"That's because Adam wrote notes in it. Now that I'm over him, it's not that important. Anyway, I want to finish it to see if I can learn anything."

"Oh. Okay."

Kris picked up the book. He didn't really want to read. After all, he had learned the important lessons anyway. But he didn't want Matt reading it either, because it had been intended for Kris. So he opened the book.

*

 

Unfortunately, my status as a troublemaker led me to a group home again. Its name was Jackson Academy and I had heard stories that it was where they put all the weird kids: the ones they couldn't place, the ones that had no home.

I had a room in between a kleptomaniac and a kid that I wasn't sure was a boy or a girl. I wrote a letter to my mother the first day, telling her of my new ideals, that I was going to be independent of everyone else and that while I still loved her, she could never truly influence me.

I was pretty proud of it.

It turned out my next door neighbor was a boy, and his name was Brad. He had been removed from several homes because of his penchant for stealing money for drugs.

"Also, most of them can't handle my sparkling wit," Brad grinned.

"Hmmmm. Yes, but they don't care what you are like. You were stealing money."

"Money they got for taking me. So it really was my money to begin with."

I couldn't really fault that logic. Somehow Brad and I always ended up near each other. Gay magnets I suppose, but maybe also because we both needed something out of one another. I needed something bright and shiny and new, and he needed a reality check from time to time.

It was amazing how numb I was to everything that went on in the home. It was underfunded and understaffed, so those of us who knew how could get away with a lot. Brad and I snuck around a lot, playing silly jokes and pranking the others. I was sixteen years old and for the first time in my life I was a child. Looking back at it, I knew we loved each other; not necessarily in the way we always read in books, but enough for what we needed then: as much as one could love another lost soul.

Of course I was reassigned to another home.

"You're leaving me."

"We all leave each other eventually, Bradley."

"I told you not to call me that."

"I told you I do what I want when I want."

"Will you at least write me?"

"When I can. I'll always need advice on my fabulousity."

Brad smiled. "Nah. I think you have it down pretty well. Be careful."

"Okay."

I watched him as the car drove away, wondering where he was going. It didn't really hurt, because we had both known we were always meant to be friends. But it still seemed like my whole life was saying goodbye, over and over again.

The ride was longer, and I recognized parts of the neighborhood I had grown up in. We ended up in a really nice neighborhood in the Hills. Two brunettes waited outside, the woman beaming from ear to ear.

"You must be Adam," She exclaimed, giving me a hug. "I'm Paula, and this is John. Why don't I lead you to your room while John and Jason—it is Jason right—talk?"

I nodded. Even though I towered over her, I felt overwhelmed.

"This is your room. Tomorrow we're going shopping for clothes--I heard you liked clothes. That's what Jason said over the phone. That you liked clothes, boys and music, but not necessarily in that order."

I nodded. "Yeah, but I don't want to be too much trouble."

"Oh, you could never be any trouble. Anyway, I want to. John and I want to have a baby on our own, but we figured we'd start with a teenager to get the hard part out of the way first."

She smiled at me and I couldn't help it. I smiled back.

The shopping trip was… I felt like I was in a whirlwind, and I couldn't control anything except to say that I liked black and blue and silver and leather, and then clothes were thrown at me, more clothes than I had ever needed and Paula grinned at my disbelief.

"Everyone needs pretty things. Plus you look good in them. So what kind of music do you like?"

We talked about music, both the kind my mother liked and the kind I had secretly listened to, and suddenly I was confessing that I had always wanted to be like James, and Paula nodded at me and…

She had this thing about her that made you want to tell her everything, that made you want to please her in any way you could. She smiled as I stared at her, shocked that I had even revealed that. To be honest I hadn't even thought of it since I had left home, I had been too busy with real life.

"Well, then, we'll just have to get you some lessons then."

I wrote my mother, telling her about my day, not about the lessons, but about the shopping, and how Paula was making me feel at home.

She wrote back that it was just material things again, and that I should have learned that lesson already.

I told her that it wasn't about the things; it was that Paula knew who I was and accepted me for that: that she wanted what was best for me.

My mother shot back that Paula only wanted to please me so I would love her and adore her.

I didn't respond. Why would I? Maybe my mother was right, but I had a chance to be something new, to try and finally discover something that was good for me.

My first weeks with Paula and John were spent catching up in school, which I had never liked, but in order to get lessons, I had to do well in school. Recognizing an effective bargaining tactic, I relented. It wasn't that I hated school; I just never saw much of a point. But each night one of them would sit with me if I had a problem, and soon enough I actually made honor roll.

Paula took me to a local theater, where we watched a rehearsal, and even though I knew no one on the stage, I recognized the characters. It was as if I had gone back in time.

Paula introduced me to Mr. Hernandez, the director.

"Do you have any favorite plays?"

"My mother likes Ibsen. I'm a Sondheim fan myself."

Mr. Hernandez nodded. "So do you sing?"

I nodded. For the first time in a long time, I felt nervous.

"Why don't you sing something for me?"

I swallowed, and then Kelly's words came to me _Don't think so much about it. Just feel it._

So I closed my eyes and sung the first song that popped in my head. I looked at Paula when I was done, and her hands were clasped; she beamed at me. I turned to Mr. Hernandez.

"You have a lovely tone. You've never taken lessons?"

I shook my head. "No, but I listen to a lot of music."

"Then you've listened very well. How about dancing?"

I shook my head, and Mr. Hernandez led me onto the stage.

Those first few months I actually believed I had a home. I had a mother, a father, some friends at school, and a hobby that took up most of my time. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong. I was, as always, right.

In June, John went on a business trip and Paula began training for an audition. She was a dancer, which helped me learn a lot about a subject I knew nothing about. I would be her partner, and we would practice the steps over and over, Paula becoming increasingly strident in her worries.

That was the first time I saw her pop a pill. When John returned that week, they had an argument. Pill. When Paula was sleeping one day, I snuck into her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. I read the labels and saw that this was not a new thing. My heart shrank a little and I backed into my room.

My mother, as always, had been right. But I still wanted so desperately for Paula and John to work out. It was selfish mostly, because I didn't want to give up my lessons, but also, despite the flakiness, I still loved Paula: you couldn't not love her.

I didn't say anything to John, because for a while things calmed down. But then he left again, right before their anniversary. He and Paula shouted about it, and I hid in my room and turned up my music loud enough I could pretend I wasn't hearing it.

Then came the dancing. Paula was gone all day and into the early evening, and when she returned, I heard slamming around the house. I ventured into the living room, where Paula was sobbing on the couch.

"Paula?"

She looked up. "They don't understand! I worked for weeks to get this, and I work so hard to do it right! I cannot handle all these demands! This is why I quit dancing!"

"Shhhh," I put my arms around her. "It's okay. You're perfect just the way you are."

Her smile was watery. "I wish. You are too good to me."

I pat her back and walked her to her room. I covered her and kissed her forehead.

"Wish I could just lay and dream forever," she mumbled.

My heart jumped a little and I sat holding her hand for awhile. I had to tell John. He had to know.

I called him and got a busy signal.

And again. So I held Paula's hand and closed my eyes. As usual, I had found something good, and it was gone again. I breathed deep to hold back the tears, and for the first time in my life, appealed to a higher power.

I just wanted a family.

John came home and I pulled him aside, and told him about Paula.

"I know. She's going to get help. But we want you to stay. If that's okay with you?"

I nodded. "Okay."

So the next two months were almost a return to normal, except Paula seemed drained. But towards the end of November she seemed herself again, and we all partied when I got a role in the junior production of _Wicked_.

But before opening night, John left again, Paula screaming at him, begging him to stay, John yelling back that he had to find some way of keeping the life they had. Paula shut herself in her room and locked the door.

I rattled the door at first, but I had already begun to steel myself. After all, if she didn't care about me, I wouldn't care about her. I curled into my bed and ignored the music that came from her room, and mentally practiced my lines.

The next morning her door was still locked, and by eleven I was getting tired of waiting, so I popped her lock, mentally thanking Brad for teaching me that particular skill.

Paula was sprawled across the bed, still. It wasn't until I reached the edge when I began to panic. I put my hand on hers and jumped. It was cold. I brushed back Paula's hair. Her eyes were closed and I blinked. I looked at her hands and finally noticed the bottle in her hands. It was still half full.

I put it carefully on the bed stand, and straightened Paula into a better position. Then I got a washcloth out of the bathroom and wiped her face. I didn't care if I was destroying evidence; it wasn't hard to tell what had happened. I sat next to her then, and told her everything I hadn't: that she had made me remember who I used to be, and that she had reminded me of who I wanted to be, and that I would always be grateful for that. There was no reason to be angry because she had left me; I had seen it coming months before, and chosen to ignore it.

I eyed the pill bottle on the table for a long time. After all, what had my life been but a series of disappointments and mistakes? But then I remembered Allison, grinning at me, and Kelly, guiding me through my first dance. Brad, running around the home and screaming like a loon, wearing nothing but a tutu; Paula gazing at me from the audience, proud as ever. And my mother, reading on a train to London, her eyes constantly back on me.

I left the pills alone. I wasn't done with life then. You know I am a great believer in karma, so I think in that moment, fate was telling me I had to wait, that it wasn't my time just yet.

After all I still had yet to meet you—you who needed me.

I picked up the phone and finally called for help.

About a week later I had packed my things. John said I could stay but I shook my head.

"Can you stay here knowing that you killed her? I can't. We didn't hand her the pills, but we might as well have. Anyway, you weren't the one who wanted a baby. It was her the whole time. Thanks anyway."

John blinked, because the whole time I had been there I had restrained the more outspoken part of me. It was nice to have it back.

"Are you ready?" Jason said.

I looked at him steadily. "Let's just get this done."

We drove for awhile and reached a destination in what I could only term a rabbit warren of houses, clumped together just off the highway.

"Adam, this is Ms. Del Toro."

"Tati," she said and smiled.

I couldn't decide whether she was crazy or just acting it, so I shook her hand and followed her inside.

"You room with Megan. She is leaving soon anyway. Other room is Casey and Andrew."

I pulled my bags and bags of stuff into the room, wondering where I was going to store it all.

Tati frowned. "You have too much stuff. We sell."

I turned. "It's my stuff."

"That's why you get ten percent."

She had laid on the accent and stared at me. I realized that maybe this was a battle I should let her win.

"I get to keep one suitcase."

"Deal." She held out her hand.

I shook it firmly. I had just met someone who I knew I would never be hurt by, a woman with a cold heart for business and business alone. Life was going to be good here.

At least that's what I thought until Megan showed up.

I heard her before I saw her, laughing with someone, and telling him good night. Then she walked into the room.

"Oh."

I immediately saw it wasn't me that made it safe to room co-ed. Megan's belly was round and full.

"Hi. I'm Adam. I guess we're roomies for a bit."

"The next three months. Guess they're not going to keep me around since I got myself knocked up."

"They might."

"I'm keeping the baby. I age out in a little bit anyway."

I blinked. I couldn't even imagine keeping a baby, even if I was leaving. "Well then."

Megan took my hand. "Don't tell Tati, though. She thinks I'm coming back. But I have a cousin in Michigan who wants to start a band. I'm gonna make my baby proud of me."

"You sing too?"

She nodded, and instantly I had made a friend. I didn't want to, but it was hard to resist the smile on her face as we talked about music.

"So how did you end up here?" She finally asked.

"Short story? My mom killed her boyfriend and I've bounced my way from home to home. I stole one of my foster mother's boyfriends. Just so you know."

"Good thing I don't give a fuck for the father of my baby then."

"Good thing."

I cracked then, because her eyes were twinkling and her lips were curled into a half smile.

"Okay. I guess we should sleep now."

"Especially since it’s trash day."

"What's that?"

"You'll find out."

The room was silent for awhile.

"Megan?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you scared?"

"Every day of my life. But I've been in the system since I was four. It's always being scared or hurt, with a few moments of complete joy: although most of that joy is broken eventually. One day I'd love to see all of them fly away, so I wouldn't ever have to think about them."

"Yeah. That about sums it up."

I closed my eyes and imagined all my broken joys taking flight. It was pointless. They were too heavy, too etched into me for them to ever leave.

But it was a nice idea.

*

You know about that first trash day, the disbelief that you are actually doing it mingled with the anticipation of the money you might earn, until that first selling day, when you find out that it isn't a whole hell of a lot. I watched the clothes go with great calm, Tati watching me with shaded eyes. What she didn't realize was that I had already had nothing before, so what did I care about clothes? Plus I kept the important pieces.

I went with Megan to a birthing class, mostly because Tati claimed to be too tired, although the way she looked at Alex (her boyfriend I supposed) said she wasn't tired at all. So I went, pretending to be Megan's new boyfriend. The approving looks I got from many of the girls there said a lot about the men in their lives. Although, Megan said it helped that I was hot. I don't know about that.

My first three months at Tati's were spent like that, another routine, except that I wasn't loved, but tolerated, and both Casey and Andrew laughed at me for finishing school.

"Not like you're going to college or anything."

I wasn't. But I had worked so hard already I kind of wanted to finish, even though my interest was waning. I went to appointments with Megan, who had packed her bag already.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll write. Plus there's always room for more, if you want to come."

I shook my head. I had never run from a home yet. I wanted to prove that I could hack it, so I was sticking it out for the long run. Nine more months and I was free.

She went into labor around noon, both of us alone, so I wrote a note and drove her in, constantly amazed at how calm she was the whole way through.

Ryder was born after the most intense eight and half hours I have ever lived through. I got to hold him briefly, and left the room with Megan's appeal for emancipation. We had waited until now so Tati wouldn't know. Plus, by the time Tati got to reviewing it, Megan would be long gone.

I blew her a mental kiss from the car and drove home. I lay in bed and cried a little, because yet again I had been abandoned. Luckily the next day was a free day, and I had finished all my homework early.

"Tati knows that Megan ran away."

I looked at the doorway. It was Alex. The boyfriend. I had his number though. He wasn't there for just her. I had seen a look in his eyes that reminded me so much of Ryan it hurt.

"So?"

"She’s at the hospital trying to figure out what to do. When she finds out you helped her, she is going to be mad. I can help you with that."

I looked at him. "I don't care if she knows. Now if you want to discuss sex, you aren't my type. I already did the older guy once, and it was nothing but trouble. Plus you kind of creep me out."

I have to admit it was fun watching his face. I could have easily slept with him, but it wasn't worth my while. Anyway, the worst Tati could do was kill me, and I had almost died once, so that didn't bother me at all.

She took my ten percent for three weeks. Not even hardly a slap on the wrist.

Then a week after that she told us someone new was coming. His name was Christopher, and this was his first foster home.

I'll never forget the look on your face, bewildered, bemused and befuddled. You looked completely lost. I briefly considered letting you stand there forever, because I didn't want to care, but then your eyes locked with mine for a brief moment.

Fate.

I have always believed in it, despite that had always given me a raw deal. I just thought it was fate's way of shaping me up for whatever future was in store for me. But looking into your eyes, I felt a pull I could only attribute to destiny.

So I stood up and walked over.

*

Kris remembered that day. 

He had been told his parents were under investigation for doing something they couldn't possibly have, and that he was going into temporary custody. He hadn't had time to say goodbye to anyone at all, just pack a small suitcase and his guitar. 

He had never seen a house like it, disorganized and messy, two guys yelling over a video game, another sitting disinterestedly on the stairs and a man rattling around in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned and untucked. His caseworker was outside with Tati, and Kris thought if only Gina would come inside she could take him to another home, somewhere warm and familiar. 

 

Kris knew better, because he had been informed by the kid next to him in the Social Services office that if he got a case worker that actually gave a shit, then he was doing better than most. 

Kris watched as the boy on the stairs looked up, his blue eyes widening at the sight of Kris. He felt something inside shift a little. (Kris in the here and now would call it destiny, a notion he had picked up from Adam.) 

"You must be the new kid. I'm Adam, and you look like you could use someone to show you around. I've been in the system for almost four years now, so I can teach you everything you need to know." 

"Why would you do that?" 

"Because fate told me to; because you look too good to learn things the hard way. Plus, I hear there might be a chance you'll go back to your parents. Unlike the rest of us, you have an actual chance of living a real life." 

Adam had winked at him then, and Kris smiled. "Well, Adam, I'm Kris with a K, and I guess that makes me your eager student." 

Adam's smile widened and he made a humming noise. "Hmmmm. Eager?" 

Kris felt himself blush. "Not funny." 

"Always funny." 

Kris shook his head. "So where do I sleep?" 

"We boys share a room." 

Kris swallowed, because the guy was, well, beautiful, and he had to share a room with him? Talk about distracting. 

"So how did you end up here?" Kris asked, trying to keep his thoughts off his new roommate. 

"My mom killed her boyfriend almost five years ago. You?" 

Kris set his guitar on the bed. "Well, I, uh showed up to school with this, um, really bad bruise on my neck. So a friend of mine reported it to Children's Services. And then they found other marks." 

"Aggressive girlfriend?" 

Kris shook his head. "Boyfriend. Except we weren't exactly out. And so no one believed me, said I had been brainwashed. So they sent me here. Said that there was someone like me here." 

Adam sighed. "It's going to be a long eight months." 

"What happens then?" 

"I age out, baby, and I am gone from here. No offense." 

"None taken. I've been here eight minutes and I want to leave." 

Adam laughed. "Wait till she tells you to sell the guitar." 

Kris remembered his indignation, and how Adam had shrugged and said he was going to lose the argument. A week later the guitar had sold and Adam had rubbed his back while he cried, telling him it was just an object. 

 

* 

 

I remember your face when I told you Tati was going to sell your guitar. You didn't believe me until that last moment, your knuckles white and your face barely containing your feelings as the guy took it away for half its worth. I could feel you shaking as we went home, your hand vibrating as Tati handed you your share. 

I was amazed you didn't break until we went to bed, because I had you pegged as someone who would break their first day. Then again, you consistently defied my expectations. 

"My momma bought me that guitar," you whispered and I sat on my bed, trying to keep myself apart. 

I already cared too much. 

"Hey, it can't be that bad." 

"If I'd known, I'd have left it, but my caseworker says I might not ever see them again. At least until I age out. I've never been away for more than two weeks." 

I rolled my eyes because you seemed extra whiny that night. Then I realized it wasn't weakness, but grief that held you. 

"When I first got here I had three suitcases plus a duffel bag of clothes. Do you know how hard it was to give up my clothes?" 

Then you looked at me and smiled a watery smile. "Even if I get another guitar it won't be the same." 

I walked over to your bed then, and laid my hand on your back, rubbing in slow circles. 

"Nothing will ever be the same. Welcome to your new life." 

"I don't want to change." 

I said nothing. I didn't want you to change either. For the first time in a long time I had met someone who was genuinely good, without any of the hang-ups I had found in others. You seemed perfect to me. (You weren't: you were too quiet, you talked in your sleep, and worst of all you liked _plaid_.) 

I braced myself for the moment you would fail me, just like everyone else ever had. 

In lots of ways, I'm still waiting as I write this. 

 

*

 

Kris blinked. It was pointless to read this. He didn't want to bring up his buried broken heart, but he was also desperate to know what Adam had thought of it all, how Adam had seen those precious months. Kris looked at the clock, and sighed. There should be just enough time to finish it before the day began. 

* 

I could write every moment we spent together, and I still wouldn't change any of it. I really wouldn't change anything in my life. Everything happens for a reason: karma and all of that. 

I remember the first time Alex made a move on you. It was interesting to watch because you didn't even realize he had had an eye on you. I admired your quick thinking, your glib tongue despite your red face. I should have told you about Ryan then, but I still hadn't fully processed it. I do remember telling you that nothing in your life could happen outside of your control. 

You are in control of your life aren't you? I hope so. I hope that what you gained in the little time we had was enough. 

I told my mother about you. Bet you didn't know that. I told her there was a boy just like me, and I was helping him. She asked me about you, about where you had come from. 

I told her I didn't know, and she said that I should let you learn some things on your own. After all, she said, it made me stronger. 

I didn't tell her that what my life had made me was confused, hurt and alone. I no longer had the need to rub salt in her wounds. It would be enough, if she ever got out, that I would probably never see her again. I had no need for another person in my life that only cared for what I did for him. 

I remember the first time you went hungry. Tati had gone on one of her "off" days and there was nothing in the fridge. You had this look in your eyes that said you were going to lose it. But you sat with me instead talking about music. We sang what seemed to be a thousand songs. 

The whole time, there was a determination in your eyes, a will to be stronger than you were supposed to be. I admired that. Above everything, your ability to do things no one would ever expect of you has been my favorite thing about you. 

Two months after you arrived you kissed me. It was trash day—everything happened on trash day—and we were off on our own, making up a stupid song about picking through trash and wanting to run away. Then I asked you about home. 

"So you have a boyfriend?" I asked. 

"I had one at home," you said, your face shutting down. 

"What was his name?" 

"Cale. But I told him not to wait around for me. I asked my social worker how long it would be before I came home. I told him to date other people. It wasn't going to be forever anyway." 

I stared at you, because it was the longest I had ever heard you talk since we met. (You're kind of quiet, okay? I don't mind, but when you do open your mouth, it isn't all that bad, so a little more would always be appreciated.) 

"Oh," I said. (Okay, so I wasn't very talkative either. But I didn't want to talk to you much, because that would bind me to you even more.) 

"What about you?" 

I was scared then, because the only boyfriend I had had per se was Ryan…and Brad, but neither of those had been relationships--or at least healthy ones. 

"I don't want a boyfriend." 

"Oh." 

I sighed. "Look, no offense, but I'm leaving in four months. What kind of relationship would that be?" 

Then you said something that changed my life. 

"If you don't even try, then you'll never know will you? I mean, love is the coolest thing that's ever happened in this world, and even if it's just for a little bit, then that little bit is, well, everything." 

You ducked your head, your face bright red. I didn't know what to say. I had never had anyone in my life give me what you were offering. 

"I don't do love," I said, trying still to dissuade you. 

"That's okay," you said, a sly smile on your face, "I can love enough for both of us." 

Then you kissed me. It was oh so careful, your lips gently pressed against mine, but your hands… 

If I were to list my favorite things, your hands would be number two, I think. I pushed you away, murmuring something about only knowing me for two months or something like that. 

"Aren't you the one who believes in karma?" 

How could I resist someone who beat me with my own words? Plus, you _are_ a good kisser. 

* 

I believe you remember the sex well enough for me not to elaborate. Though, two things: you have this thing, when you sing, where you throw your head back? Totally do it during sex as well. Also, you should take control more often. It's really hot. Like amazingly hot. 

I remember the day I realized I loved you. 

(Bet you weren't expecting that. I wasn't either. I thought I'd never love again. But you managed to sneak in there. You bastard.) 

We were in school. I had almost quit, except I wanted to finish, because I'd worked so hard. Then you came along and I had someone willing to tough it out with me. We only had choir together, because I was a senior and you were a sophomore. 

Sometimes you would have a fat lip or a bruise, but you never really talked much about it. (I wish you would have. I wanted to tell you not to come to school anymore, but you were too stubborn to let a few cuts get you down.) 

Then there was the knife. 

You were backed against the wall, and the knife was against your throat, Andrew's hand tensed to the point that any movement would slice your throat open. You didn't even blink. 

"Look," you said. "I don't disagree with the nature of your argument. But it’s a common fallacy that should be rectified. If you let me go, I can assure you that this conundrum shall not occur again." 

"What the fuck?" Andrew said, and his arm moved. I started to step forward, but your eyes stilled me. 

"You mean you didn't understand? Let me simplify it then. Stay away from me and I'll stay away from you. Trust me. Do you know why I'm in foster care? You don't want to." 

Andrew's hand didn't move, but he looked back at me. "Is this kid for real?" 

"I'm not sure. I poke him from time to time, but he doesn't go away." 

Then the unexpected (again): Andrew threw his head back and laughed. "All right. I'll let you go. Just be careful." 

I watched him walk down the hall, then turn. You were still against the wall. I walked up to you and took your hands. They were cold. 

"I can't believe you did that," I said. 

"Me either. I think I peed myself. Wanna check?" 

You were still shaking, but your eyes… 

You looked at me and said so many things, but it was the fact that you could still laugh, even though you could have been bleeding all over the floor, the fact that you flirted with me mere moments after having a knife to your throat… 

If there was a moment I fell, that was it. I didn't even think about it. My heart tripped quite happily into your hands. I had three months until I was gone. 

* 

I could talk about you for pages and pages, but you were there. Certainly you remember it differently, but you were there. 

Do know that in several ways, you saved my life? 

I set out to protect you, and it turned out the other way, didn't it? I have a feeling you do that all the time: turn people around. 

Do know that you will always hold a special place in my heart; that you were right: it was worth every minute. 

That the old saying: it's not you, it's me… 

It could never be truer than now. 

Please, keep yourself well; don't lose heart. 

Remember what I told you. 

Take care of yourself. 

If we should happen to cross paths again, I hope we can smile at one another, if nothing else. 

* 

Kris stared at the book. It said nothing of _why_ though. Adam had left with nothing but a wave and this, this journal shoved into Kris's hands, but no reason as to why. 

Kris's breath hitched. He was supposed to be over Adam. He was calm, cool, his heart was cold and firm and he could live his life how he wanted. 

He brushed at his cheeks and sighed. If he read the book again, he would find the reason. Maybe it was hidden somewhere between the lines. 

Kris swallowed and began to read again. 

* 

The answer wasn't in the book. Kris had read it three times and it just wasn't there. He was supposed to start school again in a week and he didn't know how he was supposed to concentrate with everything going on in his head. 

He was in an affair he didn't care about, a house he didn't want to think about, and now his heart had been ripped open again, and he didn't know how to fix it. 

But he still went to school, because he couldn't stop himself. Plus, he wanted to see if he could manage alone. He had never been alone before. Matt was still in middle school, and Grace wanted nothing to do with him. 

It wasn't too bad, as long as he remembered to avoid the right people. Being the quiet type had many advantages, one of them being that people mostly left you alone. He did get a couple of catcalls about his boyfriend, but whatever look he sent in return must have been enough. 

Then one unremarkable day in October, Kris came home and there was a blue car in the yard. It had to be Social Services. Maybe there was going to be another kid. 

"Hi, Kris," Jenny said. 

"What's going on?" 

"There's been a change. All charges against your parents have been dropped. Seems Miss O'Connell decided to retract her claim, and without any evidence, you are free to go home." 

"Oh." 

"Get your stuff while I talk to Miss del Toro for a moment." 

Kris nodded. It felt like he was moving through solid air. He grabbed the photo he had brought with him, as well as a couple notebooks of lyrics and chords he had filled out. He added Adam's journal to the pile, and walked back out. Matt and Grace were still standing there, and Alex smiled lazily from the corner, his eyes on Matt. 

"Are you ready?" Jenny asked from the door. 

"Actually, can you hold this? I forgot something. I'll meet you outside. I promise." 

Kris walked back to his room, his mind racing. He grabbed the guitar and hefted it experimentally. 

"That's not his guitar," Tati said. 

"Oh really?" Kris replied. "It's worth a third of the price of the one I brought with me. So unless you want trouble, shut up." 

Tati recoiled as if slapped. Matt gasped, taking a step back. Kris winked at him, and turned to Alex. 

"Two things before I go." 

Alex said nothing, his face darkening slowly. Kris swallowed, never more sure of anything in his life. 

"First off, I've only ever had three lovers, but you probably rank as the worst. Learn to be more considerate and you may turn out adequate." 

Alex stepped forward. Kris shook his head. 

"I'm not done." 

He swung the guitar, wincing as it hit the ground. He closed his eyes, feeling the splinters fly past his face. He opened them slowly, and handed the neck to Alex. 

"I didn't need a guitar. I just wanted to see if you would follow orders. Good boy." 

Kris reached to pet Alex's hair. Alex's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. 

"You fucking—" 

"What is going on here?" 

Kris smiled to himself. He walked over to Jenny as soon as Alex let him go. He whispered in Jenny's ear, watching her face fall, and walked out the door without looking back. He sat in the car and watched the rest unfold, the police, more social workers, the whole house empty. 

He was ready to face anything. 

* 

When he got home he held onto his mother for longer than he probably should have. She looked at him in that way Kris always felt was reading his mind. 

"You aren't the same. But you are. I don't know what to make of it." 

Kris swallowed the gathering ball of tears in his throat. "Don't worry, Mama. I'm… I'm okay." 

"I want you tell me everything." 

"I can't. I just can't. I'm sorry." 

"Then tell me who sent you the guitar." 

"Someone sent me a guitar?" 

She nodded and led Kris to his old room. On the bed laid a Hummingbird. Kris walked up to it, almost afraid to touch it. 

"Was there any sort of note?" 

Kris's mom shook her head. "No. Well, just one line. _Make sure he plays the ones I wrote, too._ Does that make sense?" 

Kris blinked and touched the edge of the guitar. "Adam," he whispered. 

"Honey?" 

Kris looked at his mother. "When I got to the house, I was confused. Scared. Then there was a hand on my shoulder and a voice in my ear. His name was Adam. I thought he left me. Now I don't know." 

Kris sat on the bed, trying to find the words to tell his tale. 

* 

Five years later… 

Adam was tired. It was a good tired, always a good tired. The show had gone well. He sat in his dressing room and marveled a little bit, still wondering how he had gotten here. His heart twinged a little as looked at the article in the paper. 

His mother had found someone to appeal her case. She was being released. 

Adam couldn't care less. 

Except that it brought back everything else, the one miscalculation he had made in leaving California. 

"Are you brooding again?" 

Adam grinned as Brad leaned in the doorway. "No. What are you doing here? I thought you were lying about the apartment being artsy again." 

"I was, but someone rudely knocked looking for you. I figured it was best to bring him here." 

"Him?" 

Adam watched as Brad motioned someone forward. Adam's breath caught at the sight of the familiar face. 

"Kris?" 

"I'll wait outside," Brad said. 

"Hi Adam." 

"How—" 

"The article, in the paper. The internet is a wide and curious place." 

Adam sat and stared. "I-I don't know what to say." 

Kris shrugged. "I'm only here for one reason really." 

"What's that?" 

Kris walked into the dressing room, eyes scanning over the articles taped to the mirror. "I figured out a lot of things, but the only thing that escaped me was why." 

"Why what?" 

"Why did you leave like that?" 

"I don't understand." Adam felt his heart beating, but Kris looked angry, even disappointed. 

"Why did you leave without even a goodbye? I mean, you told me you loved me… and then you left a stupid journal that told me everything but why, and I've been looking, and then the article—" 

"I thought you understood that I wasn't looking for long-term," Adam said turning from Kris. He couldn't face him. "You seemed okay with whatever came our way." 

Adam felt a hand on his shoulder. "A goodbye would have been appreciated." 

"Goodbyes are overrated," Adam said and stood."Go home, Kris. It's better this way." 

"Says who?" 

"Says me!" Adam pushed away Kris's arm. "Don't you understand? You said you read the journal, but you persist like you don't even know! I'm no good for you. I'm so fucked up I can't even handle love when it's handed to me on a silver platter." 

"Adam—" 

Adam looked at Kris, into his eyes for the first time in years. "I left because if I had stayed, I would have broken us. And then I could have never lived." 

He turned to leave. 

"I slept with Alex." 

Adam stopped. But he did not turn. "Why should that matter?" 

He heard Kris laugh, and it made him turn back. It was a hard laugh, short, dry, and humorless. 

"You broke us anyway. I slept with him because I wanted to feel something besides pain." 

Adam wanted to close his eyes, to shut it out. But he deserved to hear this, after what he had done. 

"And did you?" 

Kris shrugged. "After the first time, it became a game. To see what I could get out of the relationship." 

Adam bit back a question. Kris wasn't supposed to have turned that way. How—he didn't have to know anything. 

"If you were going to leave me with your journal, you should have told me to read it all at once. But at least it taught me the art of manipulation." 

"Kris—" 

"No. One more thing, and then I'm done. I couldn't get you a guitar, because I know you don't play. But I got you this instead. Maybe you'll consider things differently." 

Kris handed him letter. 

"Kris, I don't know what to tell you." 

"Then don't say anything. Just promise me you'll read it." 

"Okay." 

"Is he your boyfriend?" 

Adam shook his head. "Brad? No. Once upon a time, yes, but we make better friends than anything else." 

"Good. Because I'm not letting you go you know." 

Then Kris kissed him, right at the corner of his mouth, and walked away. Adam looked down at the paper in his hands. 

"If you were given a second chance at something so perfect you could barely imagine it, what would you do?" 

"I'd read the fucking letter. Then I'd do whatever I could to get it," Brad said.

"What if I screw it up?" 

Brad sighed. "You abandoned the guy for almost five years and he came to find you. I'm pretty sure this is a lock." 

Adam gripped the letter. He hadn't been this scared since they had first separated him from his mother. It was at least worth a read. 

* 

This is neither as long nor as in depth as yours. After all, you know my story; you've been there for the most interesting parts. 

I do have to disagree on one point: yes, I was there for the sex. I would have been interested to read your viewpoint. 

I remember your touch, and how it never seemed to be enough, how desperate and sloppy we were, how we never took the time that we should have. That's what I would change. 

You say that I was brave? I was scared shitless most of the time, trying to figure out how to get home and then trying to figure out how to make you stay. I knew the chances were slim on either, but I had to hope. After all, it's the only thing left, right? 

I guess me doing the unexpected is a surprise to me as well. 

Your belief in fate despite the fact that it had dealt you a terrible hand—I think that is my favorite thing about you. The never-ending faith that things happen for a reason, your insistence that there was some sort of plan for us all. It was a little bit like being home, just somebody redid the paint. 

Though I may say, your hands are pretty nice, too. 

I guess the reason I wrote this is because I want to tell you that you were wrong. I don't know why you left, except that you knew that you couldn't be around an underage kid without some questions. It was the way you left that hurt. 

Goodbyes, no matter how permanent, at least give closure. 

I made some choices after you left that weren't exactly the healthiest. I'm sure I told you about Alex, but I used him. I used him to get what I wanted, and for awhile, it felt glorious. Then it was boring. (Ask me someday about how I took care of him. You'd be proud I think.) 

What I'm trying to say is that I'm not mad that you left like that, not anymore. I just want to know why you couldn't have at least given me closure. 

I still love you. I told you I had enough love for both of us. Call it fate, call it karma, call it God's grand plan, but I'll always love you. But if you can't make that step, I understand. 

It's hard to love when you've never had it before. 

(I know, your mother loved you, but you understand what I'm saying. You practically screamed it from every page of your journal.) 

I just want you to know, that I changed because of you. I hope that maybe, you could change because of me. 

Anyway, I'm in town visiting my cousins, and if you want, we’re having dinner on Friday. Bring your friend, too. If you don't want to, that's okay. 

But maybe it would be nice to at least say goodbye. 

* 

Adam straightened his jacket. He had turned away ten times already. Brad rolled his eyes every time, but he followed silently. 

_You have to try_ Adam told himself. _Your whole life has been reacting to things out of your control. You've been in control for five years now. This is just another step._

He took a breath, and knocked. 

An older woman, blonde, answered. 

"You must be Adam," she smiled and gathered him in a hug. 

Adam felt kind of ridiculous, because he towered over her, but it reminded him so much of Kris's hugs, he had to ask. 

"You have to be Kris's mom. You hug the same." 

She beamed. "I am. You must be Brad, right?" 

Brad nodded warily, but didn't say anything as Mrs. Allen hugged him. He even gave her a rare and genuine smile. Adam began to realize it must be something about the whole family. 

"Call me Kim, though. Or Mom. Just not ma'am. Makes me feel old." 

"You couldn't be old. You must have had Kris at a very young age." 

Adam stared at Brad, but Mrs. Allen only smiled. "Well, aren't you a charmer. Come in, both of you. Dinner's ready." 

Adam had certain memories he liked to keep: the time on the train in London, the first time he heard the soundtrack to _Wicked_ , Allison, chatting about bugs and worms, other moments. The smile that crossed Kris's face when they came into the room jumped to the top of the list. 

Introductions were made. It was Kris's cousin and his wife, Kris, his mom, his dad, Matt, his adopted brother, his best friend Cale, Adam and Brad. Brad had immediately squeezed between Matt and Cale, asking them quickly if they were single. Adam waited, and began to relax when Kris's dad said, "Now, Brad, we have a rule. No flirting at the table." 

Brad's mouth twitched, but he nodded. "It's cool. I already flirted with your wife." 

Mr. Allen laughed. 

Adam could barely contain himself. All of dinner was like that, laughing and smiling, and underneath it all the shimmer of love. Adam let it hang over him, mostly watching. Every once in awhile his eyes would meet Kris's and he would have to tear them away. 

"May I please be excused from the table?" he asked. 

"Of course. Are you okay?" 

Adam nodded. "Oh yes, Kim. I just need some air." 

Adam made his way to the tiny balcony and leaned against it, closing his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" 

Adam didn't turn at the sound of Kris's voice. "How do you do it?" 

"Do what?" 

" _Feel. Like that_. Is it all the time? It just seems so much." 

Kris laid a hand on Adam's shoulder. "You get used to it. I, uh, have to thank you for getting me back there. I know it was you who called Katy and told her the truth." 

Adam shrugged. He still didn't turn. 

"Why won't you look at me?" 

Kris's voice was small, and Adam's insides clenched. 

_Tell him. He deserves that much._

"Do you want to really know why I didn't say goodbye?" 

"Yes." 

"Because if I had tried to say goodbye, I wouldn't have been able to leave. I couldn't have done it. Call it cowardice, but I had had enough pain in my life." 

Kris said nothing. 

"It's why I can't look at you now: because if I do, I'll want to stay, and I don't know if I can." 

"Well, the way Brad and Cale are hitting it off, you may be stuck with me anyway." 

Adam snorted, and covered his mouth. He couldn't stop the laughter from coming. 

"Not fair." 

"Well, they are. It's kind of disconcerting." 

Adam turned then, and looked at Kris. "Yeah. It is. I'm looking at you now. Are you happy?" 

"I don't know. Are you staying?" 

"I want to. I want this so bad, but how does it work? Adam looked down at his fingers."I suppose you've figured that underneath, I'm a bundled mass of insecurity. So I'm going to pretty infuriating to deal with. But tonight… Do you remember how I talked about the theater troupe, before all of this? Tonight was like that, like being home again. I want tonight to happen every night, and I think I can have that with you. I just… I don't know if I can love like you do." 

"Adam." Kris took Adam's hand. "You bared your soul to me and then bought me a guitar with money you should have used for food. I think you love more than you think." 

Adam swallowed. "Then you should definitely come stay." 

Kris grinned, almost brighter than before."Actually, Cale and I were thinking of coming out this way, renting an apartment together." 

"That'll make Brad excited," Adam said. "He's a heartbreaker. Be forewarned." 

"Not my problem. Cale's a big boy," Kris paused. "So does this mean you'll let me come see you? Possibly date you?" 

"No possibly. Definitely. I mean, we already got past the awkward sex and break up portions of our relationship… all we need to do is actually have a relationship, right?" 

Adam couldn't keep the nervousness out of his voice. Kris walked over and stepped into his arms. Adam sighed as Kris leaned into his chest. 

"So what do you want to do first?" 

Adam laid his head on top of Kris's. "I don't know. Burn that damn journal I made. Start a new one." 

"And what would it say?" 

Adam looked to the west, watching the fading sun. "I don't know. That's why I need a new one." 

"Okay. I have one for you already." 

Adam laughed. "You had high hopes." 

"You bought me guitar. That must have caused a lot of hungry nights. A journal is a small thing." 

Adam shrugged. "I've been hungry before." 

Kris sighed. "I have something else for you." 

Adam said nothing. Kris had already brought so much. 

"See, I, uh, want to get into music. So I asked around, and it turns out that there aren't that many bands fronted by single mothers who used to be in the foster system." 

Adam blinked. He couldn't speak. 

"It took awhile to convince her I really knew you, but then I described Tati and Alex to a tee, and I was in. She's getting married. She'd like you to be there you know." 

Kris held out a piece of paper, a number scrawled just inside the fold. Adam took it, hand trembling. He looked at the number then at Kris. Adam didn't say anything, except tuck the paper carefully into his pocket and stand next to Kris as the sun set. 

They stood there until the light completely faded, and Kim called them inside. 

*

 

When you handed me the blank journal, I knew that fate, for once had given me a good turn. 

I don't know if I'm going to let you read this one. I don't even know how much I'm going to write in this one. 

I do know that even though it scared me to the bone, I feel… I feel for the first time that maybe happiness is achievable. 

I do know, looking back at everything, if for one moment, I could change it, I'm not sure I would either. 

After all, it led me to you. 

I don't know if I can succeed at being happy, but if I think if I focus on making you happy, I can do it. 

I believe that people are more than what they seem, that everyone has something to say, even if I don't believe it at first. 

Wonder what my mom would think of that. 

Tomorrow, when I see you for lunch, I'm going to hold your hand and let my worries go. 

Tomorrow, I am going to start living. 

* 

Adam put down the journal. It was strange, this bubbling feeling of excitement. He was scared, that was certain, but for the first time since, since Gregory had conned his mother into a baseball game, Adam had the feeling of _possibilities._

He looked out his tiny window and watched the sky, and it came to him. He rubbed his hand over the phone number he had memorized, and smiled. 

_So this is what it's like when broken joy takes flight. Maybe someday I can tell Megan about it._

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is me again. Seriously I have to thank ladyelphaba not only for the kind donation, but for trusting of all people, me, with this prompt. When I finished reading the book the first time, I felt I was in way too deep. So thanks to everyone at and my kradio benches for encouraging me/enabling me/whatever. Lastly, to chosenfire28 The email you sent with my art meant a lot. You have no idea how much. Thank you for being endlessly kind, patient and amazing


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